


A balloon about to bust

by UMsArchive



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (that's for Jokaste and Laurent), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Auguste is too good for this world, Damen goes from Strong Independent Hoe to Weak and Gay and Help him, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Jokaste before anything else is Queen of Cynicism, Jokaste deserved better, M/M, actually the 'uncle', and Auguste is more than Lamen's 3rd wheel, awkward bookish Laurent in the beginning, lots of misunderstandings and miscommunication, the Regent is for some reason gone while my golden princes are growing??, this will be fun, we need no regents in this country
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-01-28 10:59:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UMsArchive/pseuds/UMsArchive
Summary: A fateful arrow is shot too soon. Some survive for a different path. Some learn of survival in different ways. But trajectories change all the same and not necessarily for the easier.OR Damen and Jokaste were always meant to be each other's second best. Damen meeting Laurent first and Jokaste meeting Auguste first makes them see that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my nanowrimo project and I thought it would be more motivating to post as I go; I was generally mad about how fandom percieves Jokaste and how she's always the bad guy and cast aside and since I've always wanted to write something more Auguste centric, too, and he's, in principle, a man of Damen's calibre in goodness, I thought 'HEY'

  Laurent watches that last battle from far up on the battlements. He has no special interest in warfare or swordsmanship or battle tactics, but his heart’s in his throat, following the movements of one blue cape obsessively as it moves through the mass of rough Akielon brutes, vigorously wielding his sword.

 

Some commotion happens and Laurent is momentarily and unwillingly distracted from the spot of color that is his brother. The Akielons are making way for a lone rider approaching the main battle scene. He can’t discern features and it would probably be of no help for him, but by his emblemed cape, the way he carries himself and the way the Akielons respond to his presence, Laurent thinks he can guess the identity of the approaching opponent. 

 

His breath hitches. Auguste told him things about Damianos, Akielos’ Crown Prince. Auguste sounded impressed back then, cautious. And Damianos is now dismounting, signaling something to his men and heading towards his brother, his sword out. Laurent gulps in anticipation and steadies himself, willing his every sense to keep on focusing. 

 

No matter how good Damianos might be, he still can’t be as good as Auguste. No one is. No one has ever beaten Auguste and some mindless brute had no chance to be a first. Sure, he seems big and tough enough, but Auguste has explained to him that swordsmanship was much more than power - when Laurent had asked him what could his brother find so appealing in the violence of it - that it was about tactic and smart thinking and calculated moves. Auguste is almost as tall and broad as the Akielon but most likely ten times smarter, too.

 

They step towards each other, alone - Laurent grasps the battlements’ border tighter.The hits begin - Laurent tries hard not to blink too hard with each of them, fearing he might once look again to find something terrible has happened. He’s horrified to see Damianos hold his own and more. He moves very differently from Auguste, that yes. And Laurent doesn’t know much enough about sword fighting, but his attacks don’t seem as mindless as he’s presumed them. Laurent takes a long intake of breath - Auguste has managed a strike; nothing deadly, only a shoulder, but Damianos is weakened. This shouldn’t be much longer. Laurent lets out a small sigh of relief, still anxious but not so much afraid anymore.    

 

Auguste doesn’t attack immediately. He lets Damianos pick himself up, pick his sword up gain. They start parring again. Damianos is all on offensive now, hitting ceaselessly. Auguste defends, being forced to take a few steps back. A thrust comes too fast-

 

“ _ No _ !” Laurent pushes himself forward against the stony border, not daring to blink. He’s hit. He’s hit and Laurent can’t discern just how bad the hit is. Auguste has not fallen down, but he’s slightly bent forward, probably clutching his wound. If it’s the stomach- 

 

Both Akielons and Veretians are shifting around. They’re blocking his views. Laurent jumps, switches positions, but all he manages is catch small glimpses of color in between the figures. A bit of blue there. A tiny spec of red in another place. His heart is beating frantically. He can barely breath.      

 

And then he hears it. The undisputable horn. He’s not sure which direction is comes from first. But then similar responses echo from all sides of the fort and the battlefield. It announces death. Royal death. Laurent is glued to the wall of stone. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breath. There’s a sudden movement in the commotion down there. And suddenly Damianos comes into view, taking steps back, walking on his own two feet. Veretians gather round somewhere in front of him.

 

And then they are retreating.

 

They are carrying something blue.

 

All else becomes almost inaudible from there on and his vision blurs. Laurent loses his balance, his legs too weak and trembling beneath himself and he falls behind, on his back, scraping his palms as they reach back for support only out of instinct, not particular will. He sits up, stumbling to do so, rubbing at his face, furious at the tears that won’t just stop already. He needs to gather his thought, to gather himself, to- he doesn’t know to what. He’s pretty much spinning into place, uncertain of anything. 

  
  


He finally notes the entrance he came through, takes in a deep breath and runs through and down the many sets of steps. He falls a few times, bumps into a lot of people; he’s sure he’s scratched in many places, his right knee is throbbing badly enough for him to still feel it through the overall numbness, but he ignores it entirely. He ignores everything. He ignores everyone who talks to him.  

 

“ _ Your Highness _ !” A man finally catches him and refuses to let him go any further.

 

“ _ Let me down! _ ” Laurents fights him but he’s 80 pounds of fragile skin and bones. “Where is  _ he _ ?”

 

“Your Highness,” the guard is almost pleading, “you need to be patient. He’s been rushed to the royal physician.”

 

Laurent stills. “Physician?” 

  
  


The guard awkwardly releases him, probably realising the impropriety of manhandling a Prince. He straightens up, avoiding Laurent’s eye. “He’s been wounded in the battle, but not mortally.”

 

Laurent himself is behaving improperly in all ways of the world and of common sense, but he doesn’t care. “The horns?”

 

“Your father, the King. My condolences.” 

 

Laurent closes his eyes, shakes his head once, rubs his face. With less distress, but with equal urgency, he keeps power walking towards the infirmary, anxiety just as high as on the battlements, when the single combat was still going. Dizzily, he looks around, among the groaning men. Somewhere back, there’s a space all round covered by a thick curtain. He heads there, parts it, his heart beating out of his chest, and blue eyes just like his own raise into his instantly. 

 

“I saw you fall,” Laurent whispered, stuck into place. 

 

The physician just finished tying the bandages tight at Auguste’s side, then with a, “No sudden movements, your Majesty,” and a bow, then, “Your Highness,” alike towards Laurent, he goes away, not waiting to be dismissed.

 

The unexpected change in honorifics strikes Laurent, but he doesn’t want to think about that part now. 

 

“ _ He _ stepped back when the horns started,” Auguste answers, something hollow in his voice. 

 

Laurent listens and it doesn’t make sense. But he trembles and holds tightly onto Auguste, not even realizing at the moment that it might make the freshly bandaged wound at his side burn. Not that Auguste does say anything about it either. He holds back just as fiercely, as if he has been about to lose something just as precious, too.

  
  


***

 

  They tell them with condescension that really isn’t due for people like them that they  _ must _ look for traitors in their ranks. Laurent is aghast at the audacity, but not brave enough to make a sound. Auguste just gives it a curt nod, solemn and rigid on his stony, still sickly looking complexion. Laurent thinks of it as dismissal of the matter, at the time. So he’s more than surprised when Auguste does take action in that direction, even more surprised still for the shooter to be identified - albeit dead; whoever hired him has taken care of it. 

 

Which is not enough to stop stirring Laurent’s peace of mind. “Why did you follow their  _ order _ ?”

 

“It was not an order. It was advice - good advice too.”

 

“They said it like an  _ order _ ,” Laurent insists petulantly.

 

“That’s just how Akielons talk, Laurent,” Auguste smiles good humoredly. Good humor Laurent can’t find it in himself to share-

 

“Well, they should talk differently _ to you _ .”

 

Auguste smiles larger. “We are enemies, brother. Enemies don’t have friendly ways of addressing each other. But there is mutual respect, even more than it’s due after our mock parlay.”

 

Laurent doesn’t like the way he talks, as if they owe them something, especially given that, “One of them almost killed you!”

 

“Well, he let me live, Laurent. Yes, he took advantage of our misfortune in furthering our negotiations, but he could’ve done it more so by striking me down. For one, you’d be left alone. They would then have called on our Uncle to step forward  and he’s no general nor diplomat -  _ that _ would've been a true disadvantage.”

 

He doesn’t mention the fact that they’re both skirmish about the subject of their Uncle all the same. Not that they know of him doing or saying anything to have them think so. Not that they know him much, period. 

 

But when Auguste was a young boy and Laurent younger still, something must have happened, although no one at court knows anything to this day. But the facts were as such: it has ended with Auguste overhearing a conversation between the Queen and the King in which his mother posed an ultimatum; their Uncle was to be sent from court, or the Queen and the princes must leave, and Aleron was to deal with whatever rumours and scandals that would breed. 

 

In conclusion, Auguste and Laurent know not the reason that would make the Queen as reckless as to threaten the King so. But they know their mother was never reckless, for as long as they knew her. She was a calm, calculated person who never let her emotions get the best of her. Even following her death, their Uncle was not invited back to court by the late King. Auguste, in turn, has been reluctant to do it himself. He has given it thought when his father’s - and his uncle’s brother - burial came around. He has given it thought when Auguste’s own coronation came around and whether the uncle should’ve been called by as family. But with that indecision at play - the delay - the events have come and passed without such show of grace to his and his brother’s remaining family.

 

It’s the story as Auguste knows it. And as he has confided it in Laurent when he had grown old and curious enough to inquire about the strangeness of this absent Uncle, who hasn’t seemed to be either allowed or inclined to even visit in long years.  

 

It’s well enough that Auguste is 22 at the time. A couple years earlier, the Uncle would’ve been called on all the same, for the institution of a Regency. But the Regency wouldn’t have been the main problem. The Uncle would’ve been the one making the decisions in the following negotiations. 

 

Things aren’t going great as they are. With his father suddenly gone and the weight of the world on his shoulders, Auguste has to deal with the loss of a great source of income that used to come from the flourishing Deulfeur, at a time when money is short after high spendings on war. The people of Vere deal with extra shortages and hardships due to those spendings that came mostly from extra taxes and, unlike the people of Akielos, they have no consolation in victory and glory and all of this being worth it. Their Prince has lost, when it came to proving his worth. Most hate was turned towards Akielos, that was true, but he knew there was less obvious disapproval in him, as well. There was a time when the people of there had put their trust in him to protect them when it came to it and he wasn’t able to. He didn’t want to think what the people of Delfeur thought of him, and of Vere. 

 

But at least he gets to make decisions he’s confident on. He’s taking the responsibility with enough power to owe to it, and that is a plus. He can direct the Council’s attentions to the problems he knows to be urgent. He can mend damages. But not for the people of Delfeur, right now. That’s not in his power.

 

Most of all, he’s not sure he would still be alive, not given the age of Kingship. When the pain was high enough to dull his senses and he could barely maintain his posture and hardly fight, the horns have sung on his side of camp. He had briefly wondered if it had been as clearly for others as it was for him - that it was over for him. But then the shouts accompanied it, echoing ‘The King!’ and it was suddenly something else.

 

The thought  _ father! _ was followed by a short sudden income of breath, for him. And then it became obvious his father was gone, and he most surely would be gone soon, he thought of Laurent. And he apologised to him in his mind.

 

That’s when Damianos’ sword was swung and lodged in the dirt between them and he said, “My battle with the  _ Crown Prince _ is finished. Your  _ King _ must now pass before my father first.”

 

And when Damianos’ wide back turned on him - unbelievably - he’d finally allowed his legs to fail and a blur of faces and colors he rushed past followed, and his vision finally focused only when his eyes met Laurent and the whole of what happened - and what almost happened - dawned on him.

 

He spends many hours in the evening in the training area. He hasn’t been defeated in years. He’s never had to count on the mercy available on the other side of a sword before. A part of him wonders if he should’ve not let Damianos reclaim his sword after that first and only strike he had managed. The better side of his consciousness, however, reminds him this might as well has been his salvation, when it came to Damianos holding the advantage. 

 

He’s thought about it constantly since that day. It is clear to him that a show of honour from him was rewarded alike by Damianos and not merely for his change of status as newly King. His past perspective of Akielons shifted that day and he’s having wild thoughts now. Of knowing further. Of acquaintances. Of building something else, if it might be possible.

  
  


Eventually, he, alone, shortly after his coronation, visits their uncle.

 

He talks with nostalgia of what a lovely boy he remembers Auguste to have been. He asks many questions about Arles - doesn’t seem to have heard much of anything; there’s even some misinformation there that Auguste has to correct. He otherwise seems like the average mild spoken middle aged man. Auguste is almost bent on making an invitation for a future visit, but the same indecisiveness acts up again and he finds himself departing without having spoken the words. 

 

He does finally make a stronger decision on another subject, however, and, upon returning to Arles, he writes a more or less official - and cautious - attempt to a letter to the Akielon Crown Prince.

 

It is the beginning of a long correspondence. 


	2. Chapter 2

The worst to come that the people of Delfeur have expected to fall upon them did not quite ever arrive. There were some initial incidents following the retreat of Vere at Marlas that had them feeling abandoned and scornful and living in terror of what was to become of them. But soon enough Delpha (as they were told to refer to their home now) was assigned a kyros, as per the Akielon system of governing. Of the large army often causing trouble remained only a small part and soon enough Akielon laws were put into place for the former Veretians, but also for those soldiers who have been spreading brutality and trouble. 

 

The Akielon occupation is strict and watchful, but not wholly unfair. All Veretians in position of power were discharged and replaced with Akielon rule, but they are left with their property, as were the peasants and middle class left with their pastures and trades. All former Veretian state property is now Akielon state property, but the common folk is not to cry for something they never had. The nobility, too, would rather keep quiet about losing their importance, lest they lose their money as well.    
  
Once they figure they're not in for a life of torture and slavery, they do not resist change so much, and while they do it bitterly, they do adapt. To new currency. New taxes and tax collectors. New laws and requirements and even the idea that the starburst can no longer mean anything to them hereafter.

 

They do not like their kyros. He is not described as a likable or charming man per se. His household is full of slaves and he and his compatriots are known to recklessly lay with women, slaves and free alike. The slaves are not Veretian, which relieves them in the slightest, but they fear that the indulgence of the new government might lead their own to a life of debauchery and lewdness alike.

  
  They don’t know much about their current princes, but the fact that one of them is a bastard does not sit well with them - especially that he remains revered and accepted in a position of power and commander in spite of it. 

 

  Oldest families of Delfeur adapt the easiest. Most of them don’t even get to lose any importance in the grand scheme of things, s they were always just as invisible on the political scene. These families had been there during the prior Akielon rule, and further passed through the impending change of power when Veretian administration took over. They don’t care about which morals appease each, but do stay true to the inclination of each one at a time, as not to unwittingly stand out.

 

  Iocasta's family is one of them. Ninety years before, her family ancestors were Akielon. Then Vere took over and they were mostly let be, but have been pushed into the shadows. Carefully crafted further marriages with Veretians of rank have brought them slowly back to better days, their Akielon descent no more than a memory, a few generation down the way. They did their duty, paid their respects, and Iocasta’s older and only brother joined the Veretian military proudly. The war left them in mourning and without affording to show it much, lest it might seem like they resented Akielos, which they did. But, to their credit, they resented both countries almost equally. Young Iocasta definitely did.

 

Their family had the following principle ingrained in their blood: to be loyal to no one; to fight for their own survival and interest only.

 

Naturally, they were fast to reclaim their Akielon roots, to be mad at Vere for the death of their son, to seek the acquaintance of the new kyros that they had no particular respect for, and to take young and increasingly brilliant - now referred to by the Akielon version of her name - Jokaste to a dinner at his house when they are first invited to.

 

Almost 15 of age, Jokaste is a blossoming girl, fair and pretty, with the obvious chance to become a true beauty, only given the time. She has amazing manners, and a smart tongue, and charm to go around. 

 

The kyros - a stout man of little over twenty -  takes notice of her, pays her attention, but in a seemingly calculated way. His interest doesn’t seem personal, but he does propose to personally aid in having her introduced at court when she comes of age. Jokaste shows appropriate interest in the idea and has an adequate answer to the preposition, topping it with a polite sip of the cup she is handed by a slave she pays no attention to and a smile. She makes her parents proud. 

 

Jokaste’s education plan is changed drastically. She is taught new dances and new etiquette and is given new books to read. New relevant names to keep in mind. New interests to dedicate time to. New gossip to keep up with. 

 

Her fortune, as a single child, is not overlookable and a marriage with a higher rank within the court they currently had no access to would be desirable.  

 

Jokaste does it all with mere composure and serenity. It’s all about adapting - about survival - after all.    
  


 

***

 

Laurent’s life at court is not easier after his father is replaced by Auguste. The years of hiding - dejectedly, but gratefully all the same - in Auguste’s shadow are gone. A child who is a spare prince to the Crown Prince gets to do that. A young royal who’s the closest one can get to being a King is not that lucky. It’s an increasingly irritating time, that in which the Veretian court starts considering Laurent as a separate individual person. 

 

As a child - an unremarkable one at that, by the court’s standards of being worth remarking - he wasn’t given much attention. Lately, to his greatest dismay, eyes all around the palace turn on him as he passes by, which is inconveniencing to say the least. There are now too many annoying situations he cannot get away from: gatherings full of annoying laughter and gossip that bore him to death; self invitations to horse rides that he cannot subtract himself from - the very one time of solace and enjoyment he used to have, now tainted and no longer; but the best thing he had and which all this attention manages to taint is the irreplaceable relationship with his brother. 

 

Before Marlas and every other chaotic event preceding and following it, Laurent’s life was simple but fulfilling enough. He was secure in the fact that whatever great things normally befall a prince, it wouldn’t be his case. No one took notice of the things he did aside from Auguste, and that was ideal. He used to have no scornful looks or expectations to bear and that was fine. Auguste gave him none of either. He just took Laurent as he was, and gave him more praise and attention than he was probably due. 

 

After Auguste’s ascension, things changed. It started with Auguste barely having any free time at all, and almost none to spare for Laurent. So he was mostly lonely. No big deal. That he was used to. But trouble doubled once a couple years passed, and then another. 

 

And one night during a party, a courtier who’s been away from Arles for a few years looked at him and - with a strange glint in his eye which unsettled Laurent - remarked, “You’ve grown quite much, your Highness,” and it seemed like a fuse that had been waiting to be light, was lit, as courtier joined in in agreement, and glinting eyes multiplied. 

 

When he turned sixteen, Auguste has admitted to him having grown, too, with a proud smile that made Laurent swell instead of shrink. He’s brought a bottle of wine for them to share as ‘Laurent’s first drink’ - which it was - and they’ve stayed up late into the night, taking the time to talk more than they had had in the past couple months combined. 

 

He doesn’t fully enjoy the taste of wine, but Laurent gets pleasantly tipsy all the same, and he’s so starved of real company that he talks of everything and anything. In a moment of ridiculous excitement, to gratify Auguste, Laurent makes plans of properly learning to wield a sword and he makes Auguste promise not only for them to have a proper match someday, but also to allow him a half an hour of sparring at least three times a week.

 

The next morning, he gets the unpleasant feeling of his first hangover, accompanied by the stupefying remembrance of of the arrangement he’s got himself into. But it’s Auguste, so he cannot back down the littlest bit. He ought to give it all he has. But, wonderfully, Auguste does oblige him in his endeavors, meeting him for their sparring session periodically, so there’s nothing he can do but truly give it the best effort he can muster. For the purpose, Laurent recognises and corners the one lieutenant of Auguste’s guard that has stopped him and given him reassurance on that fateful day at Marlas - Jord, who Auguste vouches for. He’s the only one but Auguste that he allows into these training sessions. It’s a measure of confidentiality, mostly. He wants none of the court’s attention in this, at the very least.   

 

After those evenings they spar, Auguste spends hours more in Laurent’s chambers, the way they did on his sixteenth birthday. Auguste confides in him about the state problems he’s dealing with and laws he’s working on, as well as some foreign affairs. Sometimes, he even ask for his opinion. Laurent feels immensely honored and so he uses the time when he’s not learning swordsmanship to study law and knowledge of foreign countries and dignitaries and languages in the detriment of his favoured novel reading. The proud looks and praise he gets when he inputs his insight and expertise make it truly worth it. 

 

Because nothing that’s good is meant to stay that way, nasty rumors started spreading regarding his apparent disinterest in anyone’s attraction or interest as a growing young man. The King spending more nights with his pretty brother than he does with his own pet give birth to all kinds of daring scandalous suppositions. They get to Laurent first and all he does is try to ignore them as he himself is puzzled and insecure, because what does it really mean if he’s not like any normal young man should be?  

 

Eventually they reach Auguste as well, and he shuts them down with unshakable authority and all the general offendedness that someone of his prestige may claim, but talks continue in small, secluded circles. None whispers - or believes - a bad word about their King, but it’s not the same when it comes to Laurent and his seemingly obvious feelings. 

 

Not that the so called supposition stops the many contenders from chasing the pretty faced golden prince; even more, now the attempts come with a challenge; for Laurent this means their added pressure in taking advantage of subtly waiting and asking for proof that Laurent isn’t broken or of bad morals. 

 

In November that year, through the rather frequent correspondence his brother’s been keeping with Akielos’ Crown Prince - which Auguste has often mentioned, but Laurent hasn’t thought of it of too much interest to pay much attention to - Auguste finds Damianos would be in Delfeur around the end of the month and, since Auguste will have business to discuss with the Lord of Ravenel around that period, it would appear as a good opportunity to cross the border and meet face to face without a war waging all around them. Laurent doesn’t find it all that interesting, that until Auguste proposes for Laurent to accompany him. 

 

This does greatly in feeding the court’s need for gossip, because ‘the young prince apparently won’t even leave his brother’s side even when he’s off for duty’s sake’. But Laurent is content to deal with it, if it comes with his brother trusting him in such matters of crucial political affairs. Their border with Delfeur remains their most trying issue, even years down the road, and it’s pivotal that they keep a close eye on Akielos.

 

And so they stop by at Chastillon, to rest and restock their provision - their uncle’s estate. Their uncle is cordial enough, but Laurent doesn’t find it in him to have a proper conversation of his own, leaving the most of the talk come from Auguste. The uncle’s manners, while having nothing in them to worry on their own, remind him too much of those of courtiers through their effusiveness and gratifying stance.

 

The estate of Chastillon on its own does not please him. There’s something dull and obscure and somber in it, starting with the very halls of the fort, and even further in its very plains and greens. The people he keeps for company have an alike air of shadiness to them, but nothing of those unsettling feeling seem to get to Auguste as well, so he lets the impression be.

 

They only stay there for a day and a night, thankfully. Their uncle asks them to remain for a while longer, for them to have the time to enjoy the wonderful hunting opportunities Chastillon has to offer. Auguste declines, since he’s on a tight schedule, which Laurent is grateful for. 

 

For the most of the day, Laurent excuses himself from company, going out for a ride, then busying himself with taking his time in leading his horse at the stables, talking for a while about the animals with the stable boy, then bathing and dressing up and, with a hour more until he had no choice but to join the rest of the party for dinner, re-organising his things for the continuing trip himself. 

 

The dinner and after-party are quite the boring court affair Laurent expected them to be. The people present are all at least in their late 30’s, talking about very uninteresting things. Some of them try to engage Laurent in conversation now and then, but he waves them away with polite, but short answers that leave no room for continuity. There is some attempt at flirting on some occasion. Laurent feels like he’ll end up stabbing someone by the end of the dinner.  

 

Auguste, on the other hand, a few chair further across the table, somehow manages to look cheerful and agreeable and charm everyone at the table, but then again he always does.

 

The only younger person at the table is a boy a few years younger than Laurent, probably about 11 or 12. It is unclear who he may be related or connected to, as he doesn’t really interact with anyone but the servers either, although luckily for him, he also doesn’t seem to be bothered by anyone else either. 

 

During the after-party, Laurent is pouting in a corner, while the boy is also pouting in a different corner, with the addition that he however holds a bowl too big for his hands filled to the brim with sweetmeats that he keeps chewing on. Good for him.  

 

“What’s your name?” Laurent asks him, eventually taking a seat right next to him. The boy flinches, probably too preoccupied with his sweetmeats to have noticed him coming. 

 

A pause. Then, “Nicaise,” as he resumes eating with just as much disinterest, not sparing him more than a short glance. 

 

“Mind to share?” Laurent asks, voice leveled and unemotional - just generally disinterest, not even looking in his direction.

 

“There’s more on the table,” Nicaise replies just the same.

 

Laurent, this time, looks at him. “If I go get some from the tables, someone will try talking to me.”

 

Nicaise regards him with a second, longer gaze. “Understandable,” he counters, placing the bowl on the small table in between them. 

 

Then they both go back to staring absently right ahead, tending to their sweetmeats. Laurent starts by nibbling on a small piece, but his sweet tooth betrays him and it turns into pleasantly chewing one after another.

 

A servant finally observes how the Veretian prince seems to have unfortunately been make to put effort into looking for delicacies himself and hurries his way, almost pleadingly, “Do you wish for me to bring more sweetmeats, your Highness?”

 

Laurent casually waves a hand with, “No, we’re fine,” the same time Nicaise answers, “Do, he swallows them like a bird.”

 

The servant is troubled, taking careful looks in between them. “Then, do,” Laurent waves as a matter of fact once again to solve the servant’s internal conflict and he gratefully does, as well as bringing them water when wine is declined.  

 

The next couple hours pass like that, mostly in silence, but with passing comments regarding the rest of the present party that go between the two without as much as a change of voice tone or looking at each other.

 

“That Goldenbern tries to attach himself to everything and anything like some goddamn mosquito,” Laurent absentmindedly points at one man possibly in his 40s that has tried to direct an innuendo at him just earlier and was currently throwing looks and remarks at a younger woman across the table.

 

“He does. He goes living here and there currently after his wife was so enraged after finding out he was lately going after their ward that she tried to shoot him. He always wears those glove to hide the actual hole in his right palm.”

 

A few minutes later, “Lady Ellaine’s hair doesn’t even look like her hair.”

 

“It mostly isn’t. She’s got some recondition horse hair strands in betweens. Had a whole fistfull falling on the table at dinner once, but she just gathered it up and put it in her purse and no one acted like anything happened or said a thing about it.”

 

And so time passes until it’s acceptable enough for Laurent to excuse himself for the night. Laurent leaves the next morning without a sight of Nicaise present within their farewell party. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of exposition here, but I needed to get it over with before arriving in Delpha next chapter where everybody meets.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First half of the trip to Delpha.

  The Queen’s latest pregnancy was duly noted. Four pregnancies across the last ten years have terminated into miscarriages and Queen Egeria’s bloom and health have diminished with each.

 

  The Queen had come with a great alliance but with an apparently as good as barren belly. Those who had advised strongly against the marriage to Hypermenestra, a Lady from a noble family of a small importance from the countryside, have shrugged at the news of her pregnancy, showed mere indifference at the birth of a boy, proposing other positions a son (albeit bastard son) of the King may still be legitimate for, as a consolation prize, already waiting on Queen Egeria’s first pregnancy. Their shoulders slightly sagged with the following miscarriage and the uncertainty that had accompanied it, but there was time and the queen was still young and healthy.  

 

 The King’s advisors had agreed to naming Kastor presumed Crown Prince in the lack of a legitimate heir being born in the meantime, under the pressure and fear that came with a second miscarriage of the rightful Queen.

 

  After the third miscarriage, people started paying Kastor more than a brief acknowledgement. Those who were old enough to have watched Theomedes himself grow, remarked the likeness in the child, even in his walk. He was blunt and sturdy and lively, likewise.

 

Egeria was kind and wise and patient. She smiled - a soft dimple in her plum cheek.  She treated Kastor with transparent, unpresuming kindness, too.

 

A few days into the Queen’s seventh month of pregnancy, nurses, midwives and physician were on a hurry to and from the Queen’s chambers. The first call was for another miscarriage. The next news came with worries for the Queen’s life as well. The third instance, that Egeria was in surgery. Fourth - she has not survived it; a boy did.

 

The entire palace ought to have been understood in their somber reactions to the news of a newly born heir, when added to the loss of a Queen. But truth be told, it was rather that the situation as a whole had them too dumbfounded for a proper reaction of any kind.

 

 There had been no thought of possible gender, or possible names, or general prospects.

 

Theomedes considered the child that was handed for his royal inspection with confusion and just as such did he take in the lifelessness in the body of the beloved woman in the Queen’s personal chambers. The boy had long, skinny limbs and a shade so sickly it could be compared to his late mother’s. He did not cry, the only sign that he lived being shallow breaths in between low whimpers.

 

The physicians were reserved on the subject of his survivability odds. Everyone was. But the law and duty itself had them declare him the legitimate Crown Prince of Akielos, at least for as long as he would survive and celebrations for this long awaited birth took place, as much as a concomitant state of mourning for another royal would allow.

 

Theomedes had loved Egeria in some ways, and he did mourn her and felt devastation upon her death, but he was not a man to stay in touch with his feelings and confront them. His way of managing the distress of losing an appreciated wife was to throw himself even with more abandon in the arms and bed of his mistress and try to not think of it too much until the odd feeling would dull on its own.

 

He did not try to forget about his newborn child in the same manner, though. He gave him a name, Damianos, and he asked for news about his health daily. A month passed like that, and then another, and since progressing news talked of gaining weight, and losing the sickly colour, and growing hair, and gaining voice, and displaying energy, he even gathered the courage and determination to visit and hold him up again.

 

Theomedes did not love him right away. No one did. But growing fond of young Damianos came naturally to most of people. After the sick days have passed, with its pains, the confusion of life, the tireless spiralling motion all around him, the small prince grew into good humor and disposition. None could escape the charms and innocence of Damianos, soon called upon by a softer, more fitting nickname, Damen.

 

The only grievance his caretakers or guards would complain of was how his endless energy and curiosity would have them often on the run as soon as the young prince became secure on his feet. But there was nothing he couldn’t be forgiven for, few things that couldn’t just simply be overlooked, because Damen had his sweet face and way of speaking and nothing he did was ever really malicious anyway.

 

Even Kastor, despite having been dropped off his presumed throne, seemed to be easily attached and Damen, too, looking up to his bigger, stronger brother, was eager to tag along by him, admire everything he did and which Damen was still far from being able to learn. But other interests soon drove Kastor more often than not away from his enthusiastic brother who still talked just as warmly of him.   

 

Damen had enough of his father’s traits and interests, enough for them to get along well together, and he had enough of his mother’s virtues that Theomedes feels guilty about not having appreciated while she had been alive that he is glad to appreciate them now in his son. Views, they shared by assimilation. Damen was a free spirit, but he wanted to do good and listened to what other people taught him was good, as long as it was in their authority to give him lessons as such.

 

But as he grew older, few and fewer people had that authority over him. Few and fewer even dared assume as such, too. And so his known principles were the good and the bad and the proper that he had been taught as a child by nurses and teachers, the honour in fight and diplomacy he had been taught as a teenager, and then the political views and narrow spectrum of world association he had been taught as a king’s son and heir.

 

Damen grew up crowded by everyone and approached by no one. He had his rightfully reserved place in life and in all spaces but belonged nowhere. And so he treasured and respected the one connection and position that was his clearest and most uncomplicated, that of a proud son and heir.

 

He went to his father and related the news of the outcome of the fight between he and Auguste first thing. But his father did not react yet, waiting to hear the rest of judgement that he had all expectancies to be there.

 

“King Aleron is dead and Prince Auguste is of age, but he’s wounded himself as much as his army. He’s in no position to take any risks or have any pretensions right now, so we could easily press for Delfeur to be signed over legally instead of a formal occupation that would be contested or ignored by both the Veretian army and any nation posing an interest and taking advantage of both Vere and Akielos’ state of unrest.”

 

“And you believe the ascending Prince is a better option to take part in these maneuvers than an eventual regency.”

 

“Yes, if anything, this give him the chance and motivation to re-gather his forces and come to take it back in due time,” Kastor inforced, the only one with any semblance of authority that would allow him the guts to intervene in a discussion the King had with someone else.

 

“I do. Auguste would find it more pressing to secure his position, as well as any borders he can still maintain. No one would follow him into a war too soon after losing one already and while his authority as a young King is not truly settled.”

 

“So you too do agree that a counter war might result in the future, if not now, as Kastor warns,” Theomedes only acknowledged as such after Damen has had his own say in it, too.

 

“Yes, it’s not excluded. This would however also give us the time to secure Delpha and push them back more easily given the chance, having properly occupied it and secured it.”

 

Theomedes nodded shortly, both as an acknowledgement of Damen’s opinion and a dismissal, motioning for a close by kyros to lean in for a word. Damen knew it was more of a test. Most of the times, Theomedes had already thought his reasonings before inquiring opinions from anyone else and it would take the world to change his views and plans he believed in.

 

It was a reasoning he had thought through prior to presenting himself before his father, unlike his usual habit of just showing up and speaking up. But he couldn’t just childishly tell him that he had a feeling things will be different with Auguste. Because he couldn’t tell him how he had been lying in the dirt, disarmed, and truly scared for the first time in his life. He couldn’t tell him how that fear had been the drive of his upcoming vicious attack, not loosening up or thinking even a bit right then when it became apparent to him he might have actually died.

 

Only when Auguste, too, sprawled wounded on his back and struggling to get back up and in form, it did dawn on him: the similarity of the moment, the memory of Auguste’s cautious face as he warned his own people off, ordered them to let Damen gather himself, let him have the honour of dying with his sword in his hand, even if he might still die. But the horn saved him from looking like a coward when he hesitated after he had given Auguste the chance to get up, but had known it wouldn’t have been of much help to the exhausted Veretian prince.  

 

He feared retribution. He feared misjudgement. He watched Auguste throughout the eventual negotiations and congratulated himself when it turned out alright.

 

He was still proud of being regarded with either the wariness or admiration of being the one who had defeated Auguste of Vere in single combat. That meant Akielon soldiers regarded him with even more reverence. That the Veretian guards regarded him with a bitter perplexity. And that a golden haired younger prince - that had been asked to attend as a show of good will that there were no longer any other hidden intentions (a formality, not that they would expect a further attack from _that one_ ) - looked at him with as much menace and hatred that a soft faced teenage boy could muster. (Damen absentmindedly wondered how things would’ve developed there in a few years’ time, had he actually killed the boy’s brother.)

 

As of now, he doesn’t think much of those days. As far as he’s concerned, things are fine. They own Delpha and Damen himself is keeping a very diplomatic and good humored correspondence with Auguste and, as far as he’s aware, there is no hidden interest there.

 

He invites Auguste and his company without a thought to cross the border and enjoy some time of getting to know each other. Maybe spar for fun a few times without any crucial odds in between. After all, Auguste remained the best swordsman he’s ever encountered, and he could really do with a challenge.

 

The Akielons and Veretians don’t have a long term proper treaty per se, so a meeting such as this requires honor and goodwill on both sides. Damen thinks he has found those in Auguste, and Auguste should think the same to wholeheartedly agree to such a design.

 

He meets Nikandros on the step of his current residence and as they pat each other’s backs and say their greetings, they’re already walking up the stairs, going through news and plans alike in a mismatched roundabout despite being constant correspondents, and somehow making sense of it.

 

“-I also really have to introduce you to someone from here, from the city of Imbros,” Nikandros specifies, “I’ve also planned to have her and a few other nobles here accompany me on my next trip to Ios next year, all the same.”

 

Damen raises an eyebrow with transparent interest at the implication and files the information for later. All things considered, this should be an interesting, fruitful visit.

 

***

 

The time at Fortaine passes even more torturing. Effusive and talkative, the youngest of Fortaine’s Lord Guion’s sons is stuck to him like a fucking leech. Any unpleasant remarks Laurent makes seem to pass right by him and his unending enthusiasm.

 

The boy is Laurent’s age or something close, and he is way much more enthusiast to give company than Laurent is to receive it. His older brothers are, as expected, crowding around Auguste, while paying Laurent brief adequate respects. One of them made a remark that was not quite so respectable one evening in a secluded corner, but Laurent has turned him down so fast, he’s given up and never approached him again.

 

Auguste jokes about Laurent having a new friend that’s actually his age and under that he even seems genuinely pleased about it. Laurent doesn’t have it in his heart to tell him he almost wishes he was dealing with the usual gruff looking older courtiers who at least seemed to know when to take a hint.

 

Laurent needs to restrain himself from stabbing the young man with a fork quite a handful of times throughout their last dinner at Fortaine and from slamming his own head against his desert he’s not in the mood to touch despite his endless love for sweets upon hearing about the possibility of  Aimeric joining them at court.

 

He leaves the next day waving an almost enthusiastic goodbye out of relief, relief which he deems to be short lived. Their next destination is with the company of their very barbaric neighbours, so, he has no doubt, he’d end up doing some stabbing by the end of this whole business.

 

***

The main administrative city of Delfeur, Asine, looks completely different, although many things are right where they last saw them.

 

Houses built with beautifully cut rock and wood are still standing, neatly lined on the sides of the road, but old statues of Veretian historical and prominent figures are gone, likely demolished right away after the war, and beautifully sculpted water fountains are scarce, possibly having been deemed not useful or practical.

 

A more Akielon residence seems to have been built for the benefit of the current kyros. There is something imposing, but far from charming in its dull architecture. It’s so simple and unadorned, you could almost call it pittoresque. A mass of white concrete and marble and high thick pillars and wide arches. No traces of peeking towers or any intricate or eye catching ornamentation in the construction, just square planes, somehow relaxing, but otherwise unimpressive. None of the colourfully stained glass Laurent loves, either.

 

Given that he’s done some growing of his own, Laurent expects Damianos to not look as imposing and impressive as he did that last time he saw him, the way he himself has regarded him while he was sitting in the back during the treaty after Marlas’ last battle, but here he is and carrying himself just as confidently, as if he secures war victories every other day.

 

He doesn’t think the weather to be warm enough for anyone to be wearing the same garments as they would in the different climate of the far south, but there Damianos is, in a cloth that doesn’t even reach his knee, sandals that won’t properly protect his feet, and a cape that’s likely more a matter of ornamentation than covering up. He’s visibly broader now, too, Laurent observes. He was somewhat broader than Auguste already back then, but now he’s even more muscular.

 

He himself arrived just the day before, he says, and shakes Auguste’s hand most cordially. As much as he has been enthusiastic about this trip, about getting an insight in practical diplomacy and actually playing an active role in its development and impressing his brother, he can see very well where this is heading, already.

 

Damianos seems to feel right away the Auguste effect first hand, as Auguste goes out there being his charismatic self. Damianos, on the other hand, seems to have his own thing going, if one’s to go by his overwhelming presence and the effect it seems to have on the people around him. All in all, Laurent is ready to get cast back and further into the shadows, and he doesn’t know why it would bother him at all, given how much he’s wanted it these past years.

 

“My younger brother, Prince Laurent,” Auguste steps aside gracefully to reveal his own stiff posture, hands clasped tightly at his back. He tries his best at sitting straight and dignified.

 

Damianos turns to him with that same smile that seems to be part of his being when somber situations don’t require otherwise of him, and he reaches out his hand towards Laurent who brings forth his already clammy one and shakes it absently, knowing there should be some polite line he ought to add. He opens his mouth once, closes it, then opens it a second time only to blurt out, “You must be the guy who almost killed my brother.”

 

Very stilted Akelion. Definitely not diplomatic. Terribly put. If being more included in diplomatic affairs is what he’s aiming for, he’s definitely not doing a good job at appearing competent. Laurent doesn’t dare look at Auguste to see his reaction at this bluff. But that means he has no choice but to keep looking at Damianos.

 

Damianos’ smile falters only briefly, to have his expression reinforced with something assessing in it. “Barely. He’s the only one who’s had me disarmed and on my back in years.” The lips’ further stretch cause a deep dimple in his right cheek. Laurent isn’t sure why that catches his attention so completely, even if just momentarily. “And Damen would be shorter for day-to-day interaction, I reckon.”

 

“Also much more dismissive. I’ll have it.”

 

...again.

 

Damianos laughs. From the corner of his eyes he can see Auguste smile in amusement, that traitor. This week to follow should be a long one.

 

***

 

It’s strange to see what has been his continuous nightmare over the years materializing before his eyes in ways and circumstances his brain couldn’t quite comprehend. Auguste and Damianos are having bouts of fierce sparring, but there’s laughter and shouted remarks; there’s an an off-handedly given ‘you’re not watching your right side _again_ ’ from Damianos and Laurent is confused for a few moments about where the ‘again’ might come from since it’s their first round.

 

But it dawns of him Auguste’s old injury was on his right side.

 

At some point, Damianos ends up with a smack with the tilt of a sword in his face and is slightly bent on his back with a bloody nose, mouthing ‘just give me a minute’. It’s then when Laurent unexpectedly - mostly to his own self - snorts in amusement.

 

Damianos’ eyes turned on him with a playful glint from that very awkward position. “Must be quite charming, only looking from the side? Why not pick up a sword, too?”

 

“I don’t have the experience of the two of you, so if you just want to boast about yours, I’ll just take it as it is with dignity and a pinch of salt.”

 

“Why, don’t you know that the most qualitative experience is duelling with those stronger than you?”

 

“I do spar with Auguste constantly,” Laurent adamantly crosses his arms.

 

“And how is that going?” Damianos finally straightens up, looking brand new.

 

“He’s holding his own quite well already and he’s only been training for these past two years,” Auguste answers instead, having comfortably reclined himself against the railings, some swelling pride in his voice.

 

And Laurent wants to scream because Auguste is talking with the subjectivity of a brother and it’s only for the worst for the moment when this comparatively giant beast inevitable dumps him on his back and heaving.

 

But with the situation as it is, he ought to take initiative or look like the fool of the three. Not without showing his disdain with an eye roll and a puffed breath, he quickly disentangles his jacket’s laces to gain more flexibility and picks up a sword, which satisfies Damianos greatly, if judging by the dimple now making a new appearance. Auguste stays on the side, watching them.

 

Damianos doesn’t just advance on him to strike him down; he approaches Laurent like a new opponent he means to get the hang of, and Laurent takes advantage of the currently liberal pacing to do the same. There is no way he can actually win this, but he can definitely manage not to lose too easily or in a too humiliating manner. After all, just a few minutes earlier, he’s witnessed Auguste disarming Damianos, sword flying right out of his hand, only for the ridiculous man to jump back and reach out and literally catch the flung sword in mid air, Auguste only having the time to figure out what just happened and to move forward for the next oncoming thrust.    

 

Laurent catches a glimpse of Damianos’ left shoulder, and the scar Auguste put there. And he thinks maybe Damianos shouldn’t be so fast on advising others about their weaknesses. He tries to take advantage of that. Damianos counters him, apparently taking his own advice, and there’s a smirk on his face that indicates he guessed what Laurent was trying.

 

The fight lasts as much as expected, which is a moderate amount. Laurent definitely tries his best, catching and acting quickly on the sight of a poor step of Damianos, but his opponent is quick to parry and regress, too. The conclusion remains unavoidable. 

 

At the end of it, Laurent does end more or less on his back. “Oh, great. Fantastic. Isn’t winning such a thrill?” he speaks dully, trying not to be so given away in how exhausted he truly is by the cadence of his irregular breathing.

 

"I suppose you'll know one day," Damianos smiles, helping him up, help which Laurent needs effort to - albeit grudgingly - accept.

 

Laurent is in Auguste’s room that night, as he would normally be back home on freer days like this.

 

“I’m sorry, you’re doing great, and he’s doing great, and I’m just being insolent and abrasive and causing a lot of bluffs.”

 

“Brother, I’m sorry to break it to you, but that’s just your personality.”

 

“Now, that’s just rude of you to acknowledge to my face.”

 

Auguste laughs, stretching on the couch. “It’s rude if it’s meant to insult. I like your personality. And Damianos seems to like it, too.”

 

“You’re just trying to see the best in me because I’m your brother. And he doesn’t exactly like me, but he does do a better job at diplomacy than I do, deflecting all of my crude remarks.”

 

“I actually think he just honestly appreciates your sincerity.”

 

Laurent snorts with apathy. “He must be an absolute fool.”

 

Auguste laughs again, much to Laurent’s dismay.

 

***

 

 

On their second evening, they spend their time in larger company.

 

The after dinner gatherings of Akielons are a very loud business of joyous loud talking and laughter, a lot of alcohol and good spirit. It’s yet another kind of atmosphere that Laurent cannot honestly enjoy, as overwhelming and dizzying as it quickly gets. But he cannot defend the Veretian way over it, either, with its lewdness and veiled gossip. He’d be judged for seeming less than immaculate and gracefully unattainably looking in a Veretian gathering. Here, he’s sooner judged on looking too proper and stiff and unapproachable and hardly trying to fit in with the crowd.

 

Laurent is already drained after some bouts of conversation too fast paced and enthusiastic for his liking and a single glass of wine. Everyone in the room is acting like happily reconciled friends all across the chamber, when Laurent knows these are mostly just newly met acquaintances.

 

He’s subtly eyeing the time, now and then, his most ingrained habit of calculating the hour he could feign exhaustion and slip away. Auguste is somewhere in the middle of the room, being poured some suspicious liquid in his goblet by a sturdy name introduced earlier as Makedon. Auguste eyes the content just briefly, before shrugging and downing the whole goblet. Makedon laughs slapping Auguste on the back, then Auguste laughs too. It’s most uncanny.

 

Damianos is at a different corner, talking in whispers - or maybe it was just an impression due to the loud room - to Nikandros, the kyros. Altogether, those are the whole three people he feels confident about interacting to, so he’s quite at a loss for now ( not so much the kyros, but at least they are acquainted).

 

Almost like on cue, almost all of them make their way to him, Auguste waving shortly to Makedon, after getting one more fill of his goblet, and Damen shouting some last incomprehensible words to the kyros.

 

“Laurent, you’ve got to try this,” Auguste comes, pushing the goblet forward, still laughing.

 

“Is it any good?” Laurent asks flatly, eyeing the goblet with little interest.

 

“Not at all,” Damianos replies instead, reaching him as well. “But it’s an experience.”

 

He eyes them narrowly from behind the goblet rim as they look back sharing equally smiling faces as if they share a secret they’re about to involve Laurent into. There is something in the moment itself that will stick with him later, but he doesn’t think of it, now, and downs the goblet quickly instead, just to be done with it. The effect is shocking and it's all too sudden to repress the accentuated groan or the low cough to follow.

 

There’s a clap on his back and some cheering and he’s kind of perplexed and a bit overwhelmed with the atmosphere of it looming all of a sudden around him, when he’s more used to nudging at its periphery.

 

“Here,” a platter of sweets and honey glazed fruit is pushed into his hands, “these will go well after a shot of Griva.”

 

“Don’t worry about growing fat, Laurent. We’re on vacation,” Auguste comments good humoredly, most lamentably - for Laurent - turning to Damen to explain about his sweet tooth, weight problem as a child and how he’s had a lot of restrictions on sweetmeats.

 

Laurent wishes he could just turn to Auguste and go ‘why are you like this?’ but unfortunately can’t due to decorum. He’s rather not so keen on all this probably beneficial friendship in between his brother and the future King of Akielos if it comes with all this liberal talk at his own cost.  

 

Someone is refilling the empty goblet still in his hand, that he has not discarded of as he should’ve, like a fool.

 

“No worries,” Damianos picks one piece of glazed fruit off the platter, easily chewing the rubbery food. “If you’ve started training with a sword, you’ll put that on as muscle instead of fat - apparently, that’s how it works. Keep it like that and in due time you’ll be as big as me.”

 

That remark has Laurent unconsciously start looking Damianos up and down with a frown and finish with a grimace, which seems to cause a lengthy source of humor for both Damianos and Auguste, who’s now literally leaning against Damianos’ shoulder - at this point, Laurent is sure the one he’s witnessed was not Auguste’s first shot of the mystery liquid waste, which becomes even more obvious in Auguste’s insistences about how much he loves him on the way back to their rooms.

 

Laurent himself feels steady on his feet, but his consciousness seems to float somewhere in a distance and he’s not sure whether Auguste’s the one swaying or that’s just Laurent’s vision playing the trick, but he’s never touching that garbage again.

 

 

***

 

On his third day, Laurent goes on a walk by himself, and ends up trying to tiptoe his way to his room, as much as tiptoeing can be managed in a busy household. His goal would preferably be not run into either Damianos or Auguste.

 

As good as his luck runs, he meets them both, coming in together from their sparring session, of course.

 

“What happened to _you_?” Damianos is first to notice him and the quite eye-catching amount of mud, all over his clothes. Some, he can feel the weight of it even in his hair.

 

He could make up an elaborate, hardly believable lie, perhaps, but, “I slipped on a puddle of mud and literally rolled my way down the hill,” he admits dully, straight posed and dignified. There.

 

“You should keep company with you. What if you actually got hurt in your fall?” Auguste intervenes, concerned, but still embarrassingly so.

 

“Ah, yes, what this experience lacked is some people witnessing me ungracefully tumbling my way downhill. You may still feel free to send some guards to punish the treacherous dirt, stick some swords around in the mud. That would altogether ail my wounded honor.”

 

Damianos had a hard time trying not to laugh, his lips stretched to their limit, that damn bastard with his damned dimple. “I could assist you, but only if you lead us to the troublesome puddle. We wouldn’t want any innocent dirt being unjustly manhandled.”

 

Before Laurent could respond to that with more than unamused thinned lips and a dark look, Auguste’s embarrassing concerns continue, “Laurent, this is serious. What if you were on horseback and you would’ve fallen together, with the horse on top of you, either crippled or dead-”

 

“Please don’t insult my dear mare by assuming she’s as clumsy as me,” Laurent stopped him there, cheeks flushed. Sank his own boat to drown the literal King.

 

There seems to be nothing in this world that he could say that doesn't amuse the Crown Prince of Akielos, it seems, if going by the oncoming outburst of laughter, and he finds he doesn't exactly hate it altogether.

 

***

The next day at breakfast, in a show of 'hospitality and entertainment', Damianos… Damen - he guesses he might as well, since it’s all Auguste calls him - manages to convince Laurent to accept his company in his morning ride. ‘For his own safety, of course,’ a knowing tease gets included. Laurent scoffs at the remark while he inwardly brutally hates and shamelessly loves the idea. He and Damen never interacted with one another without Auguste in between. It’s almost always like that, with people they know. He can’t remember the last time he’s interacted on his own with someone he doesn't clearly despise. And he doesn’t quite despise Damen. Actually, he’s so surprised by his contrast against other people he knows, he’s not even sure what to think of him.

 

“So, enjoying what _our_ Delfeur has to offer quite much then, I gather,” Laurent comments when Damen stays quiet for too long to admire a certain extend of woods and he’s starting to worry they might descend into an awkward silence.

 

Damen snorts shortly, softly, not in the least taken aback or disturbed by that remark, “ _Delpha_ was taken from us, first. Over 90 years ago.” He and Auguste talk through a mix and roundabout of Akielon and Veretian. To Laurent, he only speaks Veretian. Given his struggles with the briskness of Akielon, Laurent is not the one to complain.

 

“Your people can definitely hold a grudge, then.”

 

“So I suppose we do have something in common there.”

 

Laurent only returns him a questioning look.

 

“Wasn’t the first thing you said to me a reproach concerning the single combat at Marlas?”

 

He flushes. “A _reasonable_ concern, in the least.”

 

“I understand where that is coming from. But ‘concerns’ is what you should keep for the future, not the past.” That was somehow the most Damen-like he could ever hear, given the assessment of his character so far, Laurent thinks. So simplified. So confident and optimistic.

 

“Are you concerned _now_ that your brother is in danger around me?” he goes on.

 

Laurent thinks of his massive build, the way he moves in the training area, all the other men he saw him disarming almost effortlessly. And yet-

 

A pause. An intake of breath. “No.” It’s almost like a realisation.

 

“Besides, your Delfeur tripped you and rolled you through the mud,” Damen dissolves the almost uncomfortable gravity of the conversation and seems to do it purely unconsciously.

 

“Yes, it’s definitely Akielon and treacherous now. You can keep it.”

 

Damen just smiles to that, without the ‘was there any doubt in that?’ that he was half expecting. It was replaced with another silence. And, Laurent realizes, it is nothing actually awkward or uncomfortable in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to include the whole of the Delpha trip, but bc editing is a devil and I keep rewriting and moving stuff around and makes my work in making this more publishable very slow, I'll just split it to get this chunk out just for the sake of slowly un-complicating my work (which is how I originally planned it, in chapters count, tbh), so I can take a break from this fic and work on other WIPs before coming back on it. Ch. 4 will end the Delpha trip.


End file.
